


Clear Skies Coming

by starstag



Series: Tell Them of my Courage [3]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Fix-It, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Platonic Love, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstag/pseuds/starstag
Summary: Joseph Blake is left reeling after it seems everything has gone wrong. The wold works strange ways, and his brother and his mysterious friend miraculously survive.Part 3 of Tell Them of my Courage! (sort of stand-alone as well, I suggest reading the other parts but totally not necessary) Thanks to everybody who offered suggestions and wonderfully kind comments, I would not have thought to do Joe's POV without you all! Sorry it got a little longer than the other two parts, but unlike Tom and Will, Joe does not spend long periods of the story unconscious. Enjoy!!
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Tell Them of my Courage [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672087
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Clear Skies Coming

Courage was one of the most admirable traits a man could have, Joe thought. He tried to be courageous, when he could.

His lovely mother, all on her own, had raised two sons, and in his eyes that gave her a great deal more courage than many men he had made the acquaintance of. She’d poured so much of herself out over the years, into caring for them, into feeding and teaching them, into making them into boys she could be proud of.

He didn’t think she could bear losing one of them, much less both. There was only so much courage a person could have, especially when they kept giving it away.

His own safety didn’t bother him, he had a great many things to worry about. It was Tom, of course. It was always Tom, wasn't it? Knowing what his little brother was doing, where he was: that frightened him more than anything else. He tried to tell himself that it was because he was worried for his mother’s sake, but that was a flimsy curtain thrown over a much darker fear. 

He would break if anything happened to Tom. Right in two, like the beech tree beyond the orchard split by lightning. He’d burn into the ground, he’d crumble like a heap of sand. If his little brother took a bullet or gas or, god forbid, a shell, he couldn’t even imagine what he would do, what he would become. 

That scared him the most, kept him up at night, woke him early in the morning. Colonel McKenzie knew how he got sometimes, he thought. He could see the way the man looked at him. Sad, almost. Like he almost wanted to say something that would be somewhat kind, but coultnd;t stoop to that level. The Colonel had his own darkness that clung to his shadow, too close at every turn. He felt the chill when he passed, in every word that he spoke, but he didn’t dare ask what brought about his fear and worry. He wanted to, or part of him did, and perhaps in a better world he would have offered some kind words, but in the world that he lived in he knew very well that would get him nowhere. 

The Colonel was the type of man who locked up his secrets and his fears, tight in a deep vault, so Joe didn’t wonder about it, and he certainly didn’t ask. The man was tired, forceful, bitter, worn: but Joe couldn’t say he wasn’t clever and that he was a bad colonel. So he left it at that, and did his best not to think on it too much. 

That was the trick, he’d learned. You had to think just enough, about the things that mattered. Too little, and you were nothing but a headless chicken, wandering headlong into danger. Too much, and your own mind became a sucking mire full of imagined monsters, or worse: real ones. 

Of course, that was not important now, none of it was. He was in the midst of a storm and his own thoughts and feelings meant nothing. Courage was a trait admirable in men, and he had to do right by his soldiers. He had to see to the poor souls, and bring them comfort where he could. 

Amidst the chaos, he did what he could: command, direct. He wasn’t tired, he wasn’t hurting: if he let his mind turn away from the task at hand, he’d be on his knees sobbing. There was the scent of blood and churned up earth in the air, smoke and gunpowder, screams and the thunder of shells, and here he was in the middle of it all. He could feel the mud smeared across his face and the soil in the creases of his uniform, but it meant nothing. He couldn’t think of the failure of the push, the sheer futility of it, how unprepared they had been.

He could think of one thing, and one thing only: the safety of his men, and getting them the help they needed. Joe was so wrapped up in the task at hand, he didn’t quite know what got his attention.Was it his name? A feeling or a presence?

Whatever it was, something stopped him and he heard his own name, called out in a soft voice he didn’t recognize, a voice fraught with a defeated desperation. He’d turned, of course, and found a man standing some five paces off.

The man had eyes so blue and pale and wide open that they didn’t even look like eyes. He was staring, staring, seeking something he couldn’t seem to find. He wasn’t a Devon, that much was clear, and he was soaked from head to toe, no helmet, no kit, no gun. Nothing but the clothes on his back and those huge, staring eyes, filled with a look of...what was that on his face? Relief? Exhaustion? 

“Yes.” he responded. Yes, he was lieutenant Blake. The man just stared, as if he was a ghost, swaying on his feet. 

The pressure of dead and dying men was already bearing down on his shoulders. “Do you need medical assistance?” he asked, as patiently as he could. What was it that he wanted?

“No, Sir. I’m from the 8th.” 

That caught his attention, more than anything else, and he stopped to really get a look at the fellow. “What the hell are you doing here?” It came out sharper than he had intended, but there was something about him: exhausted, disoriented, even wet. But that Tom’s brigade, and he listened.

“I was sent here to deliver a message-” 

Intrigued but baffled, be moved closer to the man. A bud of hope was growing in his chest, he had to ask- “ The 8th? You must know my brother.”

He nodded, and Joe’s heart leapt. “I was sent here with him.”

Tom, Tom, merely thinking about him lightened his heart, and he couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps the day was not lost after all, and to hear from his brother, to see him: that would restore him in a way rest never could. “Tom’s here?” he asked, a sudden lightness taking hold of his whole being. “Where is he?” He looked around, craning his neck as if his brother was hiding somewhere, but the man only stared back.

He was silent, then: out of confusion or fear or sorrow, he couldn’t quite tell, but the silence spoke volumes. The defeated crease of his face was loud and terrible, a physical blow all its own. “It was very quick.” He says. An afterthought. The silence before had told him everything he needed to know, and anything the man said now felt like an apology. He did apologize next, a soft “I’m sorry.” that felt lame and weak and utterly helpless in the face of the enormous black wave towering over Joe Blake.

Had he been a weaker man, Joe would have fallen to his knees. He felt as if he had been struck in the gut, as if he was choking and couldn’t find air. All at once, the world was very small and very dark, and his throat closed up as a sob rolled up from his chest, balled together from a thousand painful feelings waiting to break out.

Tom’s smile flashed before his face, a fleeting moment from summers past: bright and childlike. Of course he had to be fine, of course he had to be, it was the only thing that made sense. His mind was racing in the split second, looking for the truth , looking for an answer, but Schofield’s face held no lie.

He was too tired to lie, lost in his own sorrow and shame. So Joe crammed his own pain back with the rest of his regrets and cleared his throat and nodded through watery eyes, even as he blinked back tears.

He was holding something out to him in a battered fist, and he opened his hand wordlessly to accept. His rings and tags: tarnished, muddy, crusted in blood. He hardly recognized them, removed from the only context he’d ever known. He takes them wordlessly. Tears are brimming in his eyes, hot and heavy, and he swallows hard.

“What’s your name?” He forced himself to say. He was hardly paying any mind to the words that came out of his mouth, but he had to say something and it was the first thing that came to mind. 

The man said something, or must have, for he started nodding, his eyes on the ring and tags in his palm, blurry through tears. After a second, he realized that the poor man had said something, and he hadn’t heard at all. He blinked back the dampness in his eyes and raised his head. “I’m sorry... what?”

“It’s Schofield, Sir.” He responded. His voice was shaky: weary, sorrowful. A mirror of how he felt, only more so, if it were possible. “William Schofield.” He corrected, then added as if an afterthought, “Will.”

A great tide of exhaustion was gathering in his chest, and he took a steadying breath. “Well, you need some food. Get yourself to the mess tent.” What else was he supposed to say, to do? It felt weak as he said it, but he was lost enough that nothing seemed to make sense.

Schofield turned to leave, and there was a finality to the gesture that unsettled Joe. He paused, however, adn turned back. “If I may, I’d like to write to your mother. Tell her that Tom wasn’t alone.” 

It wasn’t an odd question. Far from it, in fact. He got the distinct feeling that his brother was, or rather, had been, friends with this Schofield. Will. He supposed that the desire to write to his dead friend's family was only natural, but the question still caught him off guard. “Of course.” He nodded, feeling more vulnerable than perhaps he ever had before. Desperately, desperately he wanted the man to turn away so...what? He wasn’t alone, he could fall to pieces sobbing. He wouldn;t even get a second by himself to contemplate the tragedy. 

In front of him, Schofield was still standing there, searching for something to say. “He was…” he paused, choosing his words delicately. “He was a good man. Always telling funny stories.”

That was his brother. He nodded. But anybody could have said that. The reminder only hurt.   
Something shifted in Schofield's face, and he seemed to find what he was looking for. “He saved my life.” He said, with a resolution his other words had lacked. He extended a hand, and for a moment it seemed all the world like a man he had never met before was reaching out to pull him from his own dark mire of sorrow. 

After a beat, he took it, held it for a second. His hand was warm, damp, dusty. Nonetheless, he was alive and present, and the gesture grounded him. He managed a nod. “I am glad you were with him.” It was hard to get the next words out, but he managed them nonetheless. “Thank you, Will.”

The man departed then, as if in a dream. He looked lost, like he himself was hardly alive, more of a spirit. He wasn’t going to the mess tent, that much he was sure of, but the man surely had a storm of thoughts in his head, and the least Joe could do was allow him a moment for him to sort through them.

He watched Schofield go, and it hurt fiercely, as if he was letting a piece of himself walk away. Part of him wanted to call out to him, to grab him, to stop him...and then what? The words died on his tongue and his legs shook as if they were about to collapse under him. 

Schofield was too far away. Now. Too far to speak to. He drew a breath in through his nose, shaky and weak. Grief swallowed you up, if you let it. He could feel it already, dragging at his ankles like mud on the supply mules. It was the cries of the wounded that got back to him: for them, the pain was sharp, immediate, overwhelming. That was something he could help, it was something he could try to fix. Somebody needed him, whole and sane and functional. They needed him, his men needed him. So Joseph Blake took a deep breath and pushed a hand through his hair and steered his mind to the present. It was, after all, the best he could do. 

It was a long day, retrieving the wounded, counting the dead. Far too long and tiring to put too much thought into, and he had long ago found it much easier to let it all flow over him, putting his effort into movement and action rather than thought.

The smudge of dirt was still on his cheeks by the time the sun was setting, finally putting a close on April 5th. His feet ached, there was blood on his cuffs with more dried into the fabric on his sleeve and he hadn’t eaten since...well, that hardly seemed important now.

Colonel McKenzie was furious in a cold, icy way that seemed contradictory at times: angry at his men, at the enemy, at the weather, at the messenger Schofield. At everything. Nonetheless, he’d bluntly told Blake in no uncertain terms that he was being sent off to sleep. The conjured-up consequences for noncompliance that he rattled off were hardly frightening, but Joe had to admit he was in no fit shape to continue doing anything. He was weary enough to sleep where he stood, like a horse, but that wouldn’t help, would it? So off he went, the idea of sleep both dreadful and welcoming, totally compliant on what kinds of dreams would plague his mind. 

He stopped suddenly, his boots carrying him to a halt. He was alone, or at least as much as he could be: several hundred feet from any other soul, far enough that their conversation faded into the wind and the rustle of the grass. A tree stood before him, as isolated as he was. A single tree in the midst of the field, far from the safety of the forest. Secluded, remote. Lonely. 

With a dejected sigh, he tugged at his collar and began to turn back towards the considerable walk to his uncomfortable bed when a shape in the darkness caught his eye. There was a heap at the base of the tree in the shape of a man. He called out, waving one hand, and received no response. 

Setting his jaw, he set off across the grass with his hands clenched at his sides, frustrated and tired enough so as to become angry. Who was the man, sleeping alone by a tree, and just what did he think he was doing? 

He got closer, and called again, but the figure didn’t so much as move. His hair ruffling in the breeze was the only response. Perhaps he was dead, Joe thought, and his blood ran cold at the thought. Maybe he’d crawled off here to rest, and he’d gone and died. Despite his exhaustion, he broke into a jog and hurried over to the man’s side, falling to his knees beside him. Before he could touch him, shake him, gauge anything at all, he got a clear view of his face and Joe stopped cold. 

It was Schofield, leaning crookedly against the tree, seemingly unable to even keep his head upright. Joe was relieved, almost, that it was him and not some other man. He was staring again, his eyes just parted and glazed over, looking not quite at any specific object, but rather the expanse of nothing in between. How long had he been sat there, unmoving, all alone? He looked nearly dead, save for the shaky rise and fall of his chest. The water on his uniform and hair had long since dried, revealing a crusting of thick caking of dust in all the seams and a hint of blood on his collar and the edge of his ear.

What exactly had become of his man, of his brother? What had they seen? His own breath hitched at the mere thought of Tom.

“Schofield.” He whispered, as gently as his tired voice would allow. “You can’t sit here.”

His response came slowly, like it required some great effort. “Mm.” he made a vague noise of acknowledgement. “Alright.” 

“Come on, Schofield.” he said, his voice becoming firm. He didn’t want to shout at the man, it was the last thing he wanted to do, and it was unlikely he even had the guts to do it anyway. But he couldn't sit out all night at the base of a tree, wallowing in his own sadness. It would wreck him, like he’d seen it do to countless other men. Not to mention the way it dragged at his own poor heart. He needed to get up, and an order could see that done. “Get up.” He pushed himself to his feet, despite the effort even that demanded, and offered a hand. 

He didn’t even try to respond, and instead his eyes slid shut and he curled in on himself ever so slightly, his lips pulled slightly in a grimace of pain. 

Of course, how could he not see? The way he clutched his hand, the way he cocked his shoulder, the way his head didn’t touch the tree, the way he stared and stared and stared. He was hurting. No, worse than that. Wounded.

Before his very eyes, he slipped to the side and he barely caught him in time to keep his head from striking the ground, crying out his name as he lunged forward.

“Schofield!” He was unresponsive, feverishly hot and heavy in his arms. He shook him slightly, called again. “Will?” After a breathless beat, his eyes fluttered open again, as distant and glazed as before, fixated on some point far beyond his shoulder. “Will? Oh God, man.” there was something deeply wrong, something he couldn’t see. He didn’t even seem quite aware of anything, and his eyes were only parted for a second before they closed again, and his gentle shaking and calling did nothing to draw him back to consciousness. He laid him back gently, and when he stood and drew his hand away, there was sticky dark blood on his palm. It felt like a sin, leaving him like that, but Joe couldn’t help the way he needed.

Thankfully, stretcher bearers were easy enough to find, even if they were as tired as he was. The clearing center was exactly as he remembered it, perhaps a little less crowded: dozens and dozens of bodies, blood, a cacophony of voices. 

They looked over Will, at the weeping puncture in his hand, at the terrible split on the back of his skull and the blood matted in his hair. There was more that Joe didn’t quite hear: bruising? A rattle in his chest? Something about his eyes? He was shooed away, pushed back so he could barely see. The doctor was there, then gone, then back again. Schofield screamed when he touched the back of his head, his chest sucking in sharply. He wasn’t awake, not really, slipping from sleep to a delirious confused waking with surprising ease, and Joe almost envied him for being so unaware of all the terrible chaos around him.

He almost lost Schofield amidst it all, and that hurt in it’s own way. The transport to the field hospital arrived not much later, and with the presence of the cars and the drivers and everything else, he found he harbored a deep need to stay with Schofield, to see it through. So he found another Lieutenant and explained it all to the poor man, who looked rather lost amidst all the information that had just been dumped on him. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he said. “Tell the colonel, I’ll be back.” It felt like begging, begging for the man’s life, for a break from it all. I’ll be back, I’ll be back, I’ll be back. 

The man let him go, confused and pitying, and Joe didn’t stop to think if he was even really allowed.

He nearly fell asleep in the truck, and it almost was worse than either remaining awake or falling into a doze. Rocked and jostled, his head hanging towards his chest, he could only imagine how uncomfortable it was for the poor battered lads on the stretchers or else leaning on one another. He was almost glad that Schofield was mercifully asleep or perhaps unconscious, and barely moved for the whole drive. It was close to dawn when they arrived, darkness clinging stubbornly to the sky as a rim of gold crept onto the eastern horizon. 

He stood blinking at the field hospital: A sprawling mess of roads, fences, low buildings and canvas tents turned hazy purple in the pre-dawn darkness. It was a flurry of movement as soon as the truuk stopped, like the clearing center: a line of nurses and orderlies were already waiting, descending on the transports as soon as the engines were cut.

Torn between wanting to help and wanting to dissolve into an exhausted puddle, he stood in the midst of it all, his eyes glued to Schofield as he was carried away, until a concerned nurse took him by the arm and tried to lead him away. That shook him out of his daze, and he thanked her, explaining that he wasn’t wounded, he’d only come up with Schofield, to see he made it back to his own company, to see to it that he was treated well. It was polite, like his mother had taught, though he’d never been as beautifully charismatic as Tom.

She seemed quietly relieved, and went off to help another poor sod, leaving him to his own devices. 

He trailed after Schofield as he was taken in, not knowing what else to do. Why had he come, again? Some foolish perception that he could help? Was he looking for absolution? Forgiveness? Closure? 

Perhaps that was it, then. It didn’t feel real, none of it did. Tom wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be. That wasn’t possible, since he hadn’t seen the wound or the body. Tom wasn’t allowed to die, he wasn’t even allowed to get hurt, without him knowing it. What would he tell their mother? What would he tell himself?

He lost sight of Schofield, shooed away by an exasperated nurse, her kindness all the more astounding in the face of her own exhaustion and concern. He found himself wandering, searching the faces of the men in their beds. Some were familiar, of course, in a vague way: Devons he had seen before, perhaps he knew their name. It was easier to look at them, they recognized him, called out to him in surprise. It was more distracting, that way. 

Then there were those he had never seen before, and he gazed at their faces too long and too intently. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, one would become Tom, and he’d be alright, then, or at least he’d be healing. Healing, he could deal with. Blighty, that was fine: he’d be going home to mum then. But the uncertainty of missing, of deceased, that was too much to even comprehend. 

His mind circled back to Schofield again. He’d seen them, a doctor with the help of a nurse, hunched over his limp form, flushing the wound on his hand and his head. The cloth and the water had come back brown and yellow in some places, crimson and black in others. He had taken a fever, they said. So soon, he heard. There was water in his chest, a cracked rib, contusions along his chest and collarbone. 

His fist clenched against his side, his teeth set hard against one another in a grimace. How much could one man take? Their bodies were but fragile flesh, and he was no better. How much more before he crumpled like the soldiers on either side of him? Until he was like Tom?

It scared him to the very core of his being, to see so many laid out, missing limbs, bleeding and bruised and battered. With his brother gone, and Schofield in a perilous state, it was hard to focus on something more positive. 

The soldiers were alive, he told himself. The nurses and doctors and surgeons, bless them, had saved the hundreds of men he’d seen at the hospital so far. It was a marble, he told himself, and he should be thankful. That barely made any of it easier.

A muffled snatch of conversation caught his ear. “....but don’t move Lance Corporal Blake. He lost a lot of blood, and I don’t want to break the stitching that’s holding the rest of it in.”

The rest of it was lost on him as he fixated on the phrase ‘Lance Corporal Blake’. It nearly hurt too much to hear: tears were already gathering in the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over as he struggled to control his breathing. But that wasn’t it, was it? The doctor had been speaking about a man, presumably still alive, with that name and title. As far as Joe was concerned, there was only one Lance Corporal Blake in the entire world, and for one chaotic second his emotions whirled back on themselves at dizzying speed. One moment, he was as low as he thought he could get, and the next riding a high of ridiculous impossibility. 

Surley, it couldn’t be true, but his legs were already carrying him across the ground, nearly pushing the beds out of the way, his blood rushing in his ears. He was calling, shouting to the doctor without really hearing it, sweat on his palms, tears in his eyes, and the poor man was turning with a look of shock, rooted to the ground.

“Blake!” he cried, all but grabbing the doctor by his collar. “Lance Corporal Blake, where is he? What happened? Joe Blake, isn’t it? Is he alive?” The words must have been hard to hear through his cracking voice, his thoughts fragmented enough without the compounding muddlement of emotion. 

“I-” The man paused, gathering himself. “Who are you, Lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant Joseph Blake.” He rattled off, nothing more than a reflex. “With the Second Devons. I’m his brother, Sir.” 

It came out all choked, and the man must have surely seen the desperation in his face, for he relented with a sigh. “Yes, Lieutenant Blake. Your brother is alive, but barely.”

He froze immediately, unable to think, to react. It was like a sudden impact, like a punch in the gut, like a thousand pounds of rocks dumped on his back. In hindsight, he would have expected the good news to be light and joyful, lifting a weight off his back, rejuvenating and hopeful.

Instead it felt as if every ounce of strength had been sapped from his limbs, leaving a quivering, voiceless husk of a man in his place.

“Steady there, Lieutenant.” The doctor said empathetically, his voice cut through with a deep weariness.

A chair was pushed up behind him, and he plummeted into it like a rock, the jolt drawing no reaction and doing nothing to shake his blank gaze from the middle-distance. He was staring at nothing, not quite hearing anything, his mind whirling in circles.

Tom? Alive? It couldn’t be. Mere moments before, he’d been ready to refuse that he was even dead at all, so why was this so difficult to accept?

“Take your time.” It was the doctor, still there, standing above him, a hand resting on the back of the chair without quite touching him. “He was stabbed by a German pilot he and another man attempted to rescue, and picked up by a company passing through that thankfully had some medical men who were able to stop the bleeding. He’s lost a lot of blood, though. But he’s alive.”

It was a lot of information, almost too much, and it left him feeling dizzy and weak. “Is he...here?” It was a lame question, he knew, with a fairly obvious answer, but nothing else would come to him. He craned his neck to meet the doctor’s gaze, who was looking back at him with no small amount of worry in his eyes.

“He is.” he nodded. “Sleeping now.” He paused, then, seeming to weigh something in his mind before speaking again. “Would you like to see him?”

It felt unreal, like some kind of cruel trick, but he nodded quickly nonetheless, desperately, like a man dying of thirst who had been offered water. 

He was taken behind a curtain to a bed much like every other one he had seen, a single soldier laid out in clean clothes amidst clean sheets. 

Tom. His heart leapt, his stomach turned. It was his brother, in the flesh, pale as porcelain, utterly still. He looked like a cold statue, like a corpse, and for a moment Joe thought he was really dead and it had all been a trick until his chest hitched and rose suddenly with the intake of breath. His eyes were closed, his rounded cheeks almost grey. There was a damp sheen on his forehead, his colorless lips were frozen, his wite hands lay stiffly at his sides. 

All at once, it was too much. A sob rose in his throat, tuning to a hiccup that must have sounded as pitiful as it thought. He curled in on himself, knees weak, eyes screwed up against tears that threatened to pour over. 

“There there.” The doctor’s hand on his back was a weak comfort at best, but he sucked in a deep breath, hands curled into tight fists, and stared straight ahead, fighting with his uneven breath until he mastered it and the urge to cry had passed. 

“You can sit with him, if you like.” He said. It was kind, sorrowful, and the doctor was nearly old enough to be his father. Perhaps that’s how he was thinking of it. A pity, it only hurt the both of them more. 

He nodded, unable to speak for a moment around the lump in his throat. “I’ll need to send a message to Colonel McKenzie.” he said, nearly weeping with relief. His voice sounded small and weak and he felt very, very tired, but Tom was alive and in that moment, nothing else in the entire universe would have mattered to him.

They brought him a chair to put by the bed, and he sat without any further ceremony. The doctor might have said something else, then, but he didn’t really hear. The man left when no response was offered, and for the first time since he had arrived, he felt almost alone. 

He watched Tom’s face, searching the depths of his expression for….what? He was asleep, what comfort could his closed eyes and relaxed cheeks possibly hold? There was nothing there to tell him he’d ever wake up again, but it was enthralling nonetheless. He couldn’t help but see Tom as young, almost infant-like in sleep. Despite the six years he had on his brother, it was hard to imagine him as anything but what he was now: a young man in his own right. He had only the vaguest memories of him as an actual baby, not that they amounted to much. A lot of crying, a lot of carrying a baby too big for his own small arms. A soft face, bright eyes, tiny grasping hands. It was all overshadowed by his father’s illness, and the fast way he’d blinked out of his life. He had to constantly remind himself that for the few memories he had of the man, Tom had none. It had always just been the three of them: Tom, Joe, Mother. He couldn’t imagine a world without them. He didn’t even want to try. 

He almost wanted him to be a baby, despite the circumstances. This close to the front, in a field hospital...this was no place for an infant. But if he was small, Joe could at least hold him, cradling him close to his chest, and that, perhaps, would make the both of them feel safer. 

The morning dragged on into afternoon, and he barely moved. A kind but weary looking nurse offered him tea, something to eat, and he politely declined. Three more times, he was shooed away by the surgeons. He didn’t watch what they did to Tom. He didn’t want to.

Evening came, bringing with it a clipped, bitter message from the Colonel. He read it once, before folding it into a tiny square in his pocket. Not the one with the picture of his mother, the other. He could stay, come back the next evening. The rest didn’t matter. 

A young doctor, a kind and fresh-faced captain, offered space for him to sleep. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until the topic was brought up, and he accepted, unable to express gratitude in any other way than profuse words thanks. The man seemed to understand, and perhaps held his hand a little too long and a little too firmly when they shook on it. He needed that. 

He ate a lot, when offered again. Enough that he felt guilty about it, taking food from the hospital, but the officers he ate with seemed not to notice at all. He barely remembered returning to the tent later. It was not quite nightfall, but he was asleep the moment his cheek touched the flat, wrinkled pillow.

Dawn came too soon. He was on his feet once the light started coming over the horizon, waking the poor doctor who had offered him space. He seemed not to mind, and forced some more food into him before he left.

The nurse watching Tom looked surprised to see him, then seemed to think better of it. She offered him a seat, which he accepted, and quietly told him how Tom had seemed comfortable throughout the night. He had not woken, not yet.

So Joe settled in to wait, watching Tom as he had before, his eyes tracing the curve of his hands, the set of his lips, the way his eyelashes looked in the light. It was his brother, yes, but this silent statue laid out on the white sheets was foregin to him. 

He noticed it slowly, over the course of minutes, but in time he realized that Tom’s face was brighter. His eyes were shifting beneath his eyelids, twitching back and forth, then his arm moved and he sighed, and gratitude burned in Joe’s heart. His brother was waking up. He stared, unsure of what to do. Did he announce his presence? Did he shake him fully awake, or let him sleep? What would he expect? Would he recognize him? What was he supposed to say?

All at once, then, his eyes snapped open. Blue, as they always had been. It had been silly to expect anything different: he wasn’t one of those poor sods, eyes scarred white by gangrene or shrapnel. They were cloudy still, though dulled by sleep and not by injury. Then he blinked, once, and his gaze seemed to shift into focus. His eyes found Joe's hand and swept up to his face where they froze, and his entire face melted into an expression of relief. 

“Ah. Done sleeping?” It felt lame, even as he said it, but nothing better came to mind, and there was no possible way a man could express such deep gratitude and relief in words. He could feel the smile spreading across his face, weaker than he would have hoped, but weariness was still clinging to his body, down to the bones.

His brother’s face flexed, nearly imperceptibly, pinching between the brow. “Joe, I-”

It was the sound of his voice that did it. It was rough, exhausted, frightened, relieved: so many things all at once, but still just Tom. Suddenly, it was all real: his brother was alive, in front of him, whole and real. It was too real, and he could feel tears and a sob welling up from some deep part of his chest. 

He leaned forward, almost against his will, and pulled Tom into his chest. He was weak, almost a dead weight, but he was warm and soft and alive that he had to press his face into his shoulder to push back the tears. 

The nurse must have still been watching, from a few yards away, and she called back to him, words that he barely heard. He needed to be careful, that he understood, and reluctantly drew back, mumbling an apology to no one in particular. 

“Joe? What are you doing here?” His thin, little voice was still Tom’s and it made his heart race. 

He sat back, his mind racing, trying to catch up to the present. “I’m here to visit you, Tom. I thought you were dead, so when I heard you were alive, I-”

“So you’re alive?”

It seemed a silly question, but it was so earnest that Joe only nodded. “Yes?”

Tom ducked his head and looked away, hiding an expression that Joe only caught the edge of. “I didn’t make it, I’m sorry. I couldn’t-”

“It’s alright!” He couldn't bear to hear another word of what Tom was going to say, and took a hold of his arm to silence him, to offer comfort. “It’s alright, I made it, didn’t I? Your mate made it just in time. Will, isn’t it? Will Schofield?”

At the mention of his companion, his entire face lifted, a look of bright hope passed over his eyes. “Will? Where’s Will? He made it, why didn’t you say? Where is he now, is he alright?”

Reassured by his brother’s sudden energy in respect to Schofield, he settled into his seat and patted the back of Tom’s hand. “He made it, Tom. Just barely, but he did. I’m...amazed, honestly. He looked in a bad way, but he just managed to stop the attack. He found me right after we came back, and meant to tell me you were dead. Said he wanted to write to Mum.”

Tom seemed not to hear, pushing himself up into a seated position to ask instead. “Is he alright? Where is he now?”

He paused, watching his brother for a long moment. What to say, what to say? How fragile a state could a man be in without breaking? He couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t bear to see Tom doing any worse than he was now. Best to tread carefully, pick his words wisely. “I…He seemed in a bad way, like I said. So I went to check on him after nightfall, and he was still with the Devons. Seated by a tree, I don’t think he moved-”

“Is he alive?” The words spilled out of Tom’s mouth quickly, his eyes wide and full of fear. “Where is he now?” 

“He was taken by a bad fever, and had a bad wound on his head. I had him taken up to the field hospital which,” He paused, fighting back a sudden surge of tears that were pressing at his eyes, a heaviness clouding his head and heart. “Which is where I found you.” Such simple words, yet they carried an almost unimaginable weight. Found. He found his brother, and he was alive. For a wild moment, he never wanted to let Tom out of his sight again. What would become of his brother if he couldn’t see? As if that would help. As if he alone could protect him from anything. As if he could do so for any of his men.

“Oh.” Tom seemed lost in thoughts of his own, and gripped Joe’s hand with a tiny squeeze. 

“I thought...I thought you were dead, Tommy.” He said softly, as an explanation. As an apology, without knowing what he was apologizing for. “ I thought you were gone.”

Tom’s lip curled into a half-smile. “Me too.” He laughed, then, at the absurdity of it all. 

“I’m amazed, really. And I..” He paused to gather himself. Even if he couldn’t wrap his head around his own thoughts, his brother deserved to understand. “I’m just glad you’re still here. You don’t go anywhere, you hear?”

He nodded, and the earnesty of it almost hurt. “I don’t plan on it.” He winced, and Joe’s heart plummeted to see the expression of pain flicker across his pale face. “You’ll write to mum? Since Will can’t?”

He nodded quickly, reassuringly, holding his brother’s hand through it all. It was the least he could do. “Of course, Tom. When I do, I’ll let you know and you can tell me what you want to say.”

“Think I’ll go home? Think I’ll get to see her?” He seemed scared, somehow. Or nervous, at least.

It concerned Joe, on his own way, to hear him talk like that. Awakened a thousand nagging voices in the back of his head. He sighed and responded as best he could. “I don’t know. I’m sorry I keep saying that, but I just...don’t.”

A silence passed between them, and he watched Tom’s face, a number of emotions moving across it in quick succession. He didn’t hear anything from the rest of the tent, nor anything outside, and was instead caught up in the reality of seeing Tom alive before him.

“Myrtle’s having puppies.” It was spoken suddenly enough that he was taken off guard, and for a moment the world was normal and right, without a single thing out of place.

“Really?” He answered, easy as you like, as if nothing was amiss. “I got a letter, two days ago, was it? Haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

He nodded, a fast little motion that must have hurt, even if he didn’t show it. “Myrtle’s having puppies, that’s what mum said, and I can’t wait to see them. What do you think they’ll look like?”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Probably spotty like their mum.” He could almost see them in his mind’s eye, gamboling over the carpet. 

“That’s what I thought. I told Will, too. He seemed happy.” He paused, mid thought, then turned his gaze upward, his eyes all of the sudden were startling wide, almost frightened. “Can you…”

“Yes?” he leaned forward quickly, desperate to do anything to calm him, to make him happy. 

“Can you go see him for me? Since I can’t? Tell me how he’s doing?”

Unsurprising. It was the little things, of course, that could comfort a man when he most needed it. His own writing, scribbled in a battered old notebook, was such a comfort for him. ““Of course.” He said, and meant it with every ounce of his strength. “If the doctors let me close enough.”

“It’ll be a dangerous mission.” He paused, as Tom leaned back, his breath coming in slow, and with a sudden but happy jolt, he realized it was his own tired attempt at a joke. “It’ll be dangerous, but I think…” 

He trailed off then, his voice growing thin and weak, and a great tenderness swelled in his heart. He could see him again, small and chubby, scared of thunder and a thousand other things, His little brother. “Yes.” he whispered, tucking the sheets back up over his chest, playing along with his little tale. “I’ll be able to make it. I’m not afraid. Tomorrow, yeah? Tomorrow I’ll go.”

“Good.” His hand had wrapped around Joe’s wrist, as weak as before, but it was still so warm and real, he didn’t want it to leave.“Good.” He repeated again, nodding to himself. “I’m not afraid either.” 

He nodded back and let him hold on. Anything for Tom, anything at all. “I know.” He whispered at last, though by Tom’s closed eyes and slow breathing he likely didn’t hear. “You’ve very brave.” 

He held his hand like that for a long while, afraid to move and wake him, desperate to just crawl into the bed beside him and hold him like he meant it. By the time he stood and stretched his stiff back and legs, it was almost noon and the surgeon had returned. He thanked him with some words that felt too lame to convey his true gratitude, and was at last able to tear himself away.

It felt like a physical blow, but it was necessary. Back with the Devons his worry didn’t go away, not that he had expected it to. But he was distracted, dogged at every step by a profound sense of dread, and by evening he knew he had to find a way to return. Not knowing hurt, like a physical pain, and he wasn’t there to comfort him, to help him heal.

Had any of his own men approached him with similar concerns, he would have offered some kind words, then advised them to keep their minds on their duties, lest they become distracted, but it was different when it was you, wasn’t it? How could he possibly distract himself when his own little brother could be dying? 

His stomach twisted. He was being selfish, that was all there was to it. Selfish and obsessive, and he had no right to put himself ahead of the rest of the men. Of course, though, there was the matter of Tom himself. He was suffering, in pain, confused, likely scared. He wasn’t doing this for himself, this was for Tom.  
Yes. He nodded to himself. This was all for Tom. With his mind made up, he set off to find McKenzie. He wasn’t hard to find, and when he spotted the man his face creased into a frown as soon as he set eyes on Joe. 

“This is about your brother, isn’t it?” it wasn’t the judgemental snap he was expecting, and that shook him even more.

“Sir.” he nodded in affirmation. “He was injured, coming with Lance Corporal Schofield.”

“Who?” There was the exasperation he had come to expect. 

“Schofield, sir. The man who delivered the message about the attack.”

“Oh. Him.” Disappointment. Regret, perhaps? “So what do you want?”

“I-” The words almost stuck on his tongue and he hastily cleared his throat. “I’m worried about him, and I think there’s perhaps a chance that he won’t las-”

“Just ask what you want.” He barked impatiently.

“I wanted to ask if I might be able to see him.”

He frowned again, squinted at Joe, then sighed loudly. “Oh, fine. First thing in the morning, and be quick about it. There’s meant to be another convoy, anyway.”

“Thank you sir.” He ducked his head and took his leave, but not before Mckenzie got the last word in. 

“And Blake?” He called after him. “Don’t make a habit of it.” 

The Colonel’s warning stuck with him throughout the restless night, but was forgotten by the next morning, when he once again took the bumpy ride up to the field hospital. A nurse, attempting to help him out of the back of the truck, recognized him when he politely told her he wasn’t one of the wounded.

She looked surprised to see him again. “Your brother’s here, that’s it?” She asked. “You’re here to see him?”

He nodded thankfully. “I am.” He said. “I’ll go to him, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

She nodded, and looked too busy to care either way, so he found his own way through the ward tents until he found Tom. Joe was out of breath by the time he got there: having his brother out of sight awoke a strange desperation in him, and searching for him in a tent full of wounded men did little to calm him down.

He was right where he had left him, dozing lightly, his sheets and clothing clean and neat. Joe sighed and forced himself to sit, breathing deep as he attempted to quiet his nerves. Before long, Tom’s eyes flickered open and quickly found his. They stared at one another for a brief second as his brother woke fully and allowed his gaze to focus, then he inched upward against the pillow so he was propped up slightly and began to talk. 

“Joe, how’s Will?” They were spoken quickly, halfway between excitement and desperation. 

He laughed, then, couldn’t help it. It was more out of relief than actual; humor, but it seemed to let his brother relax even more, and that was something he was thankful for. “What, not going to ask about me?”

“You look fine!” He insisted, though Joe didn’t believe a word of it.

“I had to go all the way back to the line, Tom.” he sighed. Even thinking about it drained his energy. “I still have a job, you know.”

Tom grinned in response, a flash of his old personality shining through, despite the weariness clouding his eyes. “Unlike me, who just gets to lounge around all day.”

“I’ll allow it.” He said dramatically, tossing his coat over the chair as he sat. “Just this once.” A headache was already coming on, and he pushed back at it, refusing to let his own anxieties ruin his visit with his brother.

Tom was watching him when he looked up, surprisingly insistent, given his state. But that was Tom, wasn’t it? “So. How is he?”

A frown pulled at the corner of his lips without him even intending to, and he groaned. “Hard to tell, honestly.” That wasn’t a lie, even. How was he to know? 

Tom pushed back at his shoulder, though the gesture carried no weight to it. He was more worried than Joe was. Of course he was, it was his friend who was laying in a bed, staring at everything like he’d never seen the world before. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I… I told him about you, about what happened.” He hesitated, afraid to elaborate.

Tom left him no option but to continue, of course. He leaned forward insistently, prompting him to elaborate with an “And?”

“He was awake, Tom, but he’s very sick. He seemed very confused. I think he heard me, but I’m not sure he understood.”

“Oh.” It was small and disappointed, and he was immediately saddened that he couldn’t provide any better news. 

“What is it, Tom? I can’t make him get any better.” He knew it wasn’t helping, but the great weight bearing down on his shoulders was beginning to squeeze the joy out of him. Had he found his brother and his friend only to lose them again? “I Wish I could. I Wish I could make you all get better.”

“I know.” He said with a sigh, wincing as he did so. “I just wanted to visit him, that’s all.”

“Of course. Only natural.” He nodded, doing his best to put on a brave front, but it was thin, wearing through in some places. Tom could tell, he was sure of it. How could he let them visit when it put them both at risk? What if he got attached and the poor man died? What then? 

Tom’s sorrowful expression was like a lance in his heart. Of course, he wanted to protect them, to heal them, to keep them safe, but the two men were friends, or closer than that. How would it be fair or kind if he kept them apart? It wasn’t like it was his decision to make either. “Alright, Tommy. I’ll see what I can do.”

The smile he got in return was reward enough. “Thanks, Joe.”

They lapsed into happier conversation after that, and when Tom fell into a doze, he quietly excused himself. He found the doctor easily, leaning over a man’s mangled leg with a nurse at his side. He waited a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back, rocking onto his heels with barely contained excitement. A part of him desperately wanted to see Will and his brother together, a part that wanted to see them well again. Perhaps, it would help the both of them. Maybe they’d even smile, or laugh, and even the thought of it brought a warm feeling to his heart. 

In the end, it was easy enough to convince him, perhaps too easy. The two men were not far off in the hospital, anway, and neither was actively dying. A grim way to think about it, Joe thought, but it was true. Perhaps a visit would lift their spirits, speed their healing. He hoped it would. “Be careful you don’t excite them too much.” he warned before Joe went to fetch his brother. “He’s in a fragile state, that man. Prone to confusion. It gets him rather worked up.”

Joe nodded solemnly, then departed with a nurse pushing a wheelchair. 

Tom was giddy upon their return. “For me?” he exclaimed, like a child with a new toy. “Is it for me?”

“Yes.” Joe replied, forcing his thoughts to remain in the moment, happy and thankful for his brother’s joy. “I thought we’d go visiting.” 

He had to be helped into the chair, of course, but he seemed to be happy to mind. He and the nurse and Tom, all in a line, went traipsing across the tent between the rows of beds, all the way to the other side. He walked ahead, his strides long and purposeful, and stopped besides the bed where William Schofield was propped up against a pillow. 

He was awake, his eyes parted slightly, and that brought enough excitement to Joe that he broke into a grin as he approached and sat at the bedside. 

He was smiling so much that his face hurt, so much that his eyes were partially closed. “Will.” he said, touching his shoulder when the man didn’t immediately respond. He rolled over slowly, his expression as lost and confused, only softening slightly when recognition dawned. 

As soon as it looked as if the man was listening, it was like a tide broke somewhere deep within him and words came flooding forth. “You’ll never believe it, “ he began, and it was true enough. He was having a hard enough time wrapping his own head around it “I’ve found him, I’ve found Tom. He’s here, Will. He’s here and alive, and he’s healing.” For a moment, a wave of emotion threatened to overtake him, and he had to sit back, swallowing hard as he blinked back tears. Will watched in silence, utterly still except for his eyes, which flickered back and forth. “He’s coming.” Joe started again, leaning forward and seriously contemplating hugging the man, he was so overjoyed. “I’ll bring him over in a bit and you can see him, yeah? You don’t need to write that letter anymore.”

On the word ‘letter’ something broke in Schofield’s gaze, a look of horrified recognition dawned on his face, and Joe realized that perhaps the poor man had not understood a single word of what he has just said.

“The letter.” He said, the words stumbling out in a confused monotone. “I didn’t write it yet, she doesn’t know.” He was leaning forward with a look of frantic bafflement. 

“What?” His brow knotted and he held up a hand to calm Will, but he only repeated himself. “Will,” Joe broke in, “It’s alright, It’s all fine. I found Tom, everything is fine.” Blinking rapidly, he sat back, his gaze breaking off from Joe.

He stood from the hard little chair and patted Will’s chest in a gesture he thought might appear reassuring. “It’s quite alright, mate. Don’t worry too much, I’ll go get him and I’ll be right back.”

He stood as quietly as he could and returned to Tom, beckoning him over. He was nearly shaking in excitement, doing his best to stay still as the nurses had instructed, holding back a wide grin. 

They approached the bed slowly, and Joe’s heart plummeted as they came closer. Schofield was in some distant realm already, staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression twisting into confusion as he saw them coming and squinted clearly trying to make out who was there.

Tom didn’t seem to notice. They sat him in a chair and pushed it closer. Something in his face changed when he saw Will laying there: something passed over his eyes that Joe had never seen. Something fiercely grateful and tender, and in a moment Joe knew he cherished this man’s life almost as much as he did his own.

Scho?” It was spoken almost fearfully, and Joe’s heart went out for his brother.   
In the bed, Will’s eyes turned to the man standing over him, but his expression did not soften. Instead, it grew tight and thin. He seemed worried, uncertain, frustrated by his own confusion. 

There was no recognition in his eyes, but something darker. What was it? Fear? His head, Joe remembered. The wound, the fever. What did he see, in Tom’s place? It must have been frightful indeed, for as Tom leaned closer and began to speak again, he flinched back, pushing himself against the pillow, twisting away. He was mumbling something under his breath, confused and scared, and a second later one of the nurses beckoned to Joe to help her take Tom away.

It wasn’t hard, he didn’t fight them. Weak and tired, he seemed more confused than anything, but it still hurt part of Joe’s heart to separate the two of them. 

Back in his own bed, Tom stared up at him with wide, searching eyes. “What was that? Why...why wasn’t he happy to see me?”

“He…” Joe searched for the words, the right thing to say. He barely knew more than Tom, how was he supposed to explain? Exhausted, his mind clouded with worry, it was probable that he’d barely do a better job providing an explanation than whatever Tom already suspected. “He got hit in the head, quite hard. Or else he fell and smacked it. It’s not your fault, Tom, he’s bound to be a bit confused. He can’t help it.”

“Oh. What happened exactly?” His disappointment was plain. 

“I don’t know.” He insisted. “He didn’t say.”

“Will he be alright?” There was desperation in his brother’s voice, frustration too. It was plain in his eyes as well, and it pained Joe to see it.

“I don’t know!” He could hear his voice break halfway through the exclamation, and he nearly winced at the sound, ashamed of his own expression of fear and his inability to help his brother. “I’m not a doctor.” It was no use, he told himself. He was doing his best, and Tom wasn’t angry with him. With a gentle nudge, he placed the flat of his hand against his chest and he laid back against the sheets. “Come on, let’s let him rest. You need rest as well.” 

The rest of their visit felt hurried and stilted, darkened by the knowledge he had to soon leave. By the time he finally rose and donned his cap, poor Tom could hardly keep his eyes open and Joe could admit to himself that he wasn’t feeling much more energetic. 

It was dark when he got back to the Devons, the woods shrouded in a cloak of fog. He slept fitfully, and the morning dawned on a week of rainy days that did nothing to lift the spirits. It only filled the trenches with four inches of water and turned the white silt to a sticking, slate-colored slime. 

McKenzie’s dark mood worsened, though Joe couldn't say he or any of the officers were faring much better. He was quietly content with the idea that at least Tom was more comfortable, and somehow that didn’t make him feel jealous at all. 

It was a gloomy night, rain drumming steadily on the tent canvas that he lifted his pen from whatever unimportant document he had been writing, and realized he had utterly failed at an essential task

He had to write to his mother. How it had slipped his mind, he had no idea. The letter had clung so stubbornly to Will’s mind, it seemed to be what he had fixated on, and here he was, as worried about words and letters and what to say as that poor man had been.

But the question remained: how did he tell her? How does a son tell their mother that his brother, her baby boy, was in danger of dying? How did he say that he was suffering? How did you put so much grief into words?

He didn’t want her to worry, he really didn’t, but it was her right to know, wasn’t it? She had birthed them, raised them. It wasn't fair to keep it a secret, even if it could save some pain. Not likely that hiding it would do even that. He had to do it, somehow. It was up to him to let her know, but staring at a blank piece of paper suddenly felt like the most frightening thing in the world.

It wasn’t the paper, he knew, but the reaction. What it meant, as well. It was only a precaution, he told himself, but it still meant that Tom could die, and that still wasn’t a confession he was ready to make. 

Nonetheless, courage was an admirable trait in a man, and the letter wasn’t for him. Dear mum, He put down in dark ink, staining the paper like blood on a bandage. Now that it was started, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. 

McKenzie didn’t seem surprised when he asked if he could see his brother again, but it didn’t mean he accepted the fact, and it didn’t make his words any less bitter. Joe did his best to remain composed throughout the interrogation, his gaze level and clear. 

He let him go, of course, as he had before, though Joe could come up with a thousand reasons why he could have refused. He didn’t dare ask why the man was being so kind, or even if it was a sort of kindness. He had his own reasons for doing so, and Joe wasn’t the sort to pry. Besides, it wasn’t like he cared, not really. It was hard to admit to a dedicated, studious man like himself, but even the importance of the wellbeing of his own men paled in comparison to Tom’s health. In a split second, a few words from Schofield had totally rearranged his priorities and his entire life had become consumed by a single thing.

By the time he got back up to the hospital, it was midmorning, bright and sunny, warm enough to nearly be called balmy. The nurses on the ward recognized him, though he wasn’t quite sure if he was meant to be flattered or concerned by it. A sign of too much time spent at the hospital, or simply a kind gesture on their end?

Needless to say, they knew exactly who he had come to see, and after a quick update on his state and how Schofield was faring, she left him by his brother’s bedside as he silently contemplated asking the Colonel for a few days leave to stay at the hospital himself. A foolish idea, of course, though he entertained it nonetheless, and it brought him a bit of peace. 

Tom blinked awake more quickly than he did before, his gaze resting on Joe’s face right away. Fighting back his own urge to doze, he nodded contentedly. “Feeling better?”

Tom only nodded, rubbing at his eyes as he pushed himself into a sitting position. It looked like it took an effort, but he bit back the urge to help.

It wasn’t like he could do any good, he thought as he failed to stifle a yawn. “Good, good.” he murmured. Tom certainly looked better, he had to admit. Meanwhile, he was likely looking worse. “I’ve got some good news, if you’re awake enough to hear it.”

His face lit up immediately. “Letter? Mum?”

He was almost sad to contradict his brother’s hopeful question, but the news he did have to give was hardly unfortunate. “No, not yet. But is it about that friend of yours. Lance Corporal William Schofield.” Tom had never been the most subtle soul, and he spotted the tensing of his arms and legs and the brilliantly excited look in his face long before he made a move to rise from the bed. He shot his younger brother a gentle glare and placed a hand on his forearm, a kind warning. “He had a dreadful fever, but it’s finally broken. The surgeon’s looking in on him now. If the surgeon allows it, I can’t see why you shouldn’t be able to visit him later.”

In a flash, Tom was sitting up, and immediately he doubled over, blinking rapidly as tears welled in his eyes and he sucked a breath in through his teeth. Joe reacted quickly, his arms out as if he could catch Tom, as if he could take away his pain. He felt rather silly for jumping to his feet, as if it were some dire danger that faced them and not just his brother sitting too quickly. He settled, instead, for gently pressing him back against the pillow.

It did nothing to inhibit Tom’s enthusiasm, and he gazed up at him with a barely-contained smile. “Really? Can I go today?” 

The question brought so many possibilities to mind, so many worries he knew he shouldn’t be dwelling on. To allow him to go...well, how would Will react? How would Tom’s wound fare? But all the same, he couldn’t bear to keep them separated. “I don’t know, Tom.” His brother was watching, expectant, ancioux, hopeful, and at last he relented. This wasn’t about him, anway. It was about Tom and what would make him heal. 

“Here,” he sighed, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. “I’ll go see after him today so he doesn’t get a heart attack from you appearing, thinking you're a ghost. And if they allow it, I’ll come fetch you. I’ll not have you getting in a fight with the surgeon. Is that agreeable?”

Tom was nodding before the words were out of his mouth, his head bobbing up and down so rapidly it was if he could nod it right off. “Yes, more than agreeable.”

He nodded and patted Tom’s hand, finally letting himself smile. He couldn’t close the hole in his belly, but this, at least, was something he could do for him. Pushing himself to his feet, Joe set off, fully intending to keep his promise. As before, it still hurt to leave his brother behind. He could feel Tom’s eyes on his back the whole time, watching, waiting.

Schofield was dozing when he ducked behind the curtain. Half of him wanted to turn back, afraid to disturb him, but the man was only sleeping lightly and stirred when he pulled the chair out, so he quietly cleared his throat.

His eyes flickered open, and he blinked three times before his gaze settled on Joe. He seemed lucid, or more than he had before, and his blue eyes didn’t hold the pain and turmoil he had once seen in them.

“Schofield.” He reached forward to touch the man’s shoulder. It seemed a comforting gesture, though he was unsure if Will would see it that way. “I heard your fever broke. You’re looking much better.”

He paused, seeming to turn the words over in his head, but he held Joe’s gaze and responded after a moment. “Much better, sir. How long has it been?” His voice cracked on the question, but he had little trouble speaking.

“Oh.” Joe took a moment to think. How long had it been? The last few days had dragged on at some points, feeling like years, and at other times they had flashed by in the blink of an eye. “Oh, uh...four days? Four days now? Yes, that seems about right.”

“Only four?” He squinted up at Joe, but this time he shared his confusion. He wasn’t even sure if that was right, and it certainly felt hard to believe.

“You look brighter, Schofield.” He said comfortingly, and it was true enough. He sat in the chair and leaned forward to speak directly to him. “I’m glad you’re back with us.”

As sincerely as the words had been spoken, Schofield didn’t immediately respond. He nodded and looked away, then grunted softly. Hardly an answer, but at least he was listening. 

He began to talk again, gently and expressively. “I heard you got quite the bump on your head. Saw it, too. How’d you do that, now? That’s a story I’d like to hear.” Will nodded, one little bounce of his head, and his eyes closed when he did so. “Some other time, eh?”

He nodded again and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as he touched it. “Maybe.” It was soft, thoughtful. “When I can remember it all clearly.”

Joe couldn’t help but laugh. This man, quiet and introspective: this was who Tom considered to be his best friend? Of course, he couldn't help but see it now: Tom would make their whole excursion into a story, tell it to his mates or anybody that would listen. “Some of him rub off on you?” He chuckled once more, then shook his head a shake. “Well, that’s not why I came here. Just wanted to see if you were up to a visitor? Thought I’d ask you, this time.”

Will gestured up at him, an eyebrow raised. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

He laughed again, and it came more easily than the first one had. A joke: Schofield had to be feeling at least a little better. “Yes, well. You’re sure?” Will nodded and Joe got to his feet. His heart did a little flip of excitement. “I’ll go get him then.

He was smiling when he exited, or at least he must have been, judging by Tom’s expression. An anxious frown was replaced by a broad grin and he nearly leapt to his feet, or at least as well as he could have. It must have hurt his side, but Joe was relieved to see that there was something that could inspire such limber movement: he had to be on his way to healing.

The nurse at his side offered a steadying hand and Joe nodded as he bit back a chuckle. “Come on, then.” Together, the three of them made their way across the ward, with Joe and the nurse on either side of Tom. It was slow going, but Tom was determined, almost shaking with excitement. 

When he looked up at Schofield, barley six paces away, a broad grin came over his face and Joe could almost feel the joy radiating off him. 

“Easy, Tommy, don’t rush it all.” He said gently, though a reminder was hardly warranted: it wasn't as if Tom was listening to him anyway, his eyes were glued to Will. 

Leaving Tom with the nurse, he stepped up to the end of Will’s bed and cleared his throat to speak: even and slow, as he had done before. “Found him, finally. Thought you’d be interested in seeing Tom, since you’re feeling a little better now.”

He wasn’t listening, that much Joe could tell, but he was hardly surprised. Hisgaze went right through him, or rather past him, to where Tom was standing behind. Feeling an almost nervous flutter in his chest, Joe stepped back. It was time he let them speak to one another, time he gave them space.   
All at once, both of them seemed lighter, more alive. Tom could stand straighter, Will’s gaze cleared. He watched his brother approach, the two of them gazing at the other in wonder, almost cautiously, as if the other one would disappear before their eyes. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Tom said, and Joe could hear all the relief and gratitude in his voice, almost cracking with emotion. 

The words had just left his mouth when Will’s expression shifted from uncertainty to look of utter shock, and in the blink of an eye he had surged forward and over the end of the bed. He could barely stand, but there was a ferocity in his gaze, and he staggered right into Tom.

Caught off guard, both men grasped at one another in a fierce embrace, swaying too and fro. Joe flinched, his first thought not for their reunion but for the wound in Tom’s side, and the split across the back of Will’s head. 

“Hey!” he called out, but luckily the commotion had drawn the attention not only of the nurse who had helped him in the first place, but two orderlies as well. Between the four of them, they were able to seperate a dazzled Tom from a desperate Will. Once Schofield was settled back in the bed with sheets tucked firmly around him and his head resting on a pillow, Joe was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he steered his brother into a chair. 

Throughout the whole ordeal, their eyes had remained locked on the other one, and they didn’t stray even as Joe spoke to them both. “The two of you. You’ll be the death of me, of each other.” He shook his head in wonder as he draped a robe protectively over Tom’s shoulders. “No wonder you made it. Such tenacity!” 

There wasn’t a response, not even from his brother, so he sighed and ducked out. Tom didn’t reply and didn’t turn to watch him go. He only stared in silence at Will and he stared right back.

He watched them, looking at each other, when he knew they thought he was gone. There was something alive in his brother’s gaze, in the way he looked at Will. Shcodielf was the same, drinking him in like he was a parched man in the desert and Will was water. Of course, it was only natural: they’d been through hell and back, and they were friends after all. 

Joe gave himself a shake. What was this? Jealousy? And why, when his brother and Schofield were clearly happy? No matter, he told himself. They were content and safe in one another's company, and it was time he got going anyway. He almost felt guilty for leaving without saying goodbye to his brother, but how many times had Tom fallen asleep before he got to say a proper farewell? It wasn't as if he missed him, not now.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his thoughts on his whole journey back to the Devons, and by the time he returned he was in a sour mood. If anything, he was entitled to such a mood. McKenzie experienced them often enough, and he and the Devons had been through a rough patch the last few days, to say the least. His brother was in a field hospital with a big bloody hole in his side, for god’s sake-what did it matter if he was mad at something? 

The letter, he thought. I must finish the letter. My men don’t deserve my anger, and Schofield doesn’t either, nor my brother. Finish the letter, finish the letter. So once again, he put his pen to the paper as the sky grew dark, and told his mother the whole truth of the matter. 

In his mind’s eye, they were all together. He could see it, so clearly, but like a veil had been thrown over the memory. How long had it been since he had seen his mother? Since he’d seen Tom, healthy and strong? Since they had been a family? 

It was easier to finish than before. Perhaps his frustrations let the words flow out, or perhaps now he simply had more to say. For a brief moment, it was if his mother was really there, and he was spilling all his thoughts out to her. His pen met the end of the page abruptly, and far too soon. There was more he wanted to say to her, to Tom, to himself, but finishing the letter and all the suffering it contained had left him drained so he folded it and drew a breath, hoping the other officers nearby had not seen or sensed his distress. 

Luck was not on his side, and as soon as he looked up as he put the letter in his breast pocket, his eyes met McKenzie’s.

“What’s that?” It was McKenzie, watching him rather pointedly as he smoked, his face hard yet ultimately unreadable.

“A letter to my mother. About Tom. My brother, sir.”

“How is he?”

“Who?” The question caught him off guard, and Joe squinted.

“Your brother.” He repeated, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the evening air. “How is he?”

“Better.” He responded delicately. “A lot better than before, or at least that’s what the doctor says. He’s still weak.”

McKenzie turned to look at him at last, and Joe couldn’t help but let his gaze drift to the scar through his eye. “Back to blighty with him, do you think?”

Joe was taken aback by the interest, but the question itself. It didn’t seem to have a hidden meaning, not when he peered at the man’s face. It appeared plain enough, genuine interest, though it felt odd nonetheless. “Yes.” He said at last. “I expect so. It’s a deep abdominal wound, and he lost a lot of blood.”

The Colonel stared a moment, longer, and Joe began to feel quite strange under his intense gaze. What was he thinking? Why did he care? He sighed, in the end. A great weary sigh that seemed to drain energy from his face, his shoulders collapsing. “Probably for the best.” He took a long drag on the cigarette, and didn’t speak another word about it for the rest of the night. 

In the morning, his young batman appeared as Joe was drinking thin coffee, and told him he was free to go up and visit his brother. He must have looked surprised, for the poor young man shot him a look of utter bafflement, but he left nonetheless, finding passage with a scheduled convoy in the afternoon. 

The rain had made the roads heavy with muck and the journey was slower than he was accustomed. By the time the edges of the field hospital could be made out, it was late in the evening, almost dusk. 

He is greeted politely by a number of nurses and passing orderlies. A few days between a convoy really went a long way in settling down the whole mood of the hospital, and they seemed much more relaxed than before, despite the wet conditions. It was pleasant enough that they recognized him, and more so that they stopped to address him. He contemplated stopping to converse with them more fully, before thinking better of it and entering the ward tent.

The nurse on the ward looked up and nodded silently when she saw who it was. It was quiet inside, dark and hazy, lit only by a few lamps and filtered evening light. Some of the men were asleep, others were dozing, he saw one or two reading, but the overall mood was peaceful and subdued. 

Treading quietly, he crossed over to the back, where Tom’s bed was surrounded by the now familiar curtain. He pushed it aside, ready to sit and speak to his brother, or merely watch him as he slept.

Something, immediately, was wrong. The bed was empty. His heart plummeted, racing in a split second, and he sucked in a breath. No, no it couldn’t be-he’d come so far, and to lose Tom now? Even the thought was unbearable. 

But something wasn’t right: the area had not been cleared, the bed was rumpled as if somebody had simply risen from it and left. He could not see the nurse on the ward, and resisted the urge to call out to her, lest he wake any healing soldiers. Tom was not in the bed, but that didn’t mean anything had happened to him...did it? He touched the mattress tentatively. It was still warm, and a creased spot on the pillow marked where he had laid his head.

He turned to search the area, and noticed the curtain had been moved aside. Joe peeked past it, and sure enough it had been pushed over in the direction of Will Schofield’s bed. 

I wonder where Tom went. He thought to himself with a small chuckle before setting off across the ward. 

A dozen paces away, something stopped him, and he paused to peer around Will’s curtain at the bed beyond. Any words he meant to call out to his brother instantly died on his tongue. 

The two of them were lying together, wrapped in each other's arms, squeezed together in the narrow bed.

They were speaking to one another, soft and low. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was tender enough that he didn’t need to hear to know what was being said. 

Cast in soft light, it looked almost like a painting, gentle and sweet and so thankful. It felt like peace, like home. 

As quietly as he could, Joe drew back. He couldn’t bear the thought of disturbing the scene, and watching them somehow felt like a violation of privacy, despite the sense of calm it gave him. They were happy, he told himself. Healing and utterly content with one another, and that was all that mattered.

He’d have time, he realized as he turned away with a quiet sigh. He’d have all the time in the world to catch up, but for now, the moment was Will and Tom alone.


End file.
